What to Expect When You're Not Expecting It
by tore-my-yellow-dress
Summary: We lose a battle, but win the war. Olitz.


Olivia pressed a kiss to the edge of his trembling jaw as an afterthought. The solid weight of him leaned against her was comfortable, chests heaving in synchronization despite the fabric barriers. Regardless of the ache in her tailbone and the painful stick of sweat and fluids on bare skin to wood, it occurred to her this was the most at peace she'd been in weeks.

The lingering anxiety at the thought of letting him go had been eating at her since the moment the ballots had come in steady- since he'd won. They had agreed to let this die if he'd made it to office. Apparently, that had gone out the window a long time ago, dragging her sanity with it.

Fitz groaned in her ear, releasing her enough to reconvene his efforts to her mouth- swollen and sensitive. He sucked her bottom lip and she tried, oh _she tried, _to maintain a solid position and not allow her eyes to roll back in her head. Finally, she pulled away, leaning back on her palms to fully look at him.

"You need to get back to the ball," Liv pointed out in a breathy lilt.

He sighed, and leaned forward. When he stretched an arm behind her for a box of tissue on the desk, a part of her was put out he hadn't fought her- just a miniscule head voice. The ruling part was glad she didn't have to fight back.

Cleaning them both silently, his eyes wandered to sear Liv's heavy gaze, adoration and assurance apparent in those baby blues. When he was finished tucking himself into his pants, he moved lithely to snatch up the underwear on the floor. When he knelt she blew air between her lips, shivering uncontrollably.

It was nearly as seductive when he put her clothes _back on._

Taking every bit of the strength she so adamantly prided herself on, she rose from the desk, wincing again, to garner another tissue- a sore attempt to clean up the mess.

"The maids do that daily," Fitz told her, a brazen arrogance seeping through his words. Liv hastened a glare in his direction and disposed of the Kleenexes, next to no true heat behind her.

He pulled her in for another kiss, sweet and easy.

Gently, she stepped back, hands braced on his forearms- maintaining a distance but never letting go. "Come on," she murmured, an ache of loss marring the pit of her stomach. "Time to go."

Olivia sauntered over to the couch and helped him into his jacket, adjusting the lapels and smoothing her hands over the wide berth of his shoulders. He still smelled like their actions; that couldn't be _fixed._

When he left first, one last meld of lips and a squeeze of her hip in his sturdy palm, it felt vaguely reminiscent of saying goodbye to a significant other when they were on their way to work. The door thudded shut with finality, and his last words rang in her ears.

"This isn't the end, sweet baby. It's the beginning."

**OOO**

Camp David was quiet.

A fire flickered steadily and the wine glasses were perched upon a side table. Warmth wasn't a problem, as sweat was still cooling at the nape of his neck and her curls tousled and falling. Still, a thin throw covered them both- for show, for a semblance of decency. Those four walls were a sanctuary to be who they were, not to carry the facades of President Grant and Press Secretary Olivia Pope. He was Fitz. She was Liv.

The reality was it _really _wasn't that simple.

It was horribly perfect that she couldn't comprehend where he ended and she began. Soft carpet against her back- they hadn't even made it to the bed. They were sloppy, passionate, and didn't care- and _that _was a bad combination. Liv wondered when it all went to hell, and pressed back against him teasingly, blanket slipping off their naked bodies.

**OOO**

Exhausted, she dozed off after a particularly strenuous session of lovemaking, and awoke to the expanses of his hands across her upper thighs, sinking into the pliable flesh. He grumbled, and drew his tongue up the column of her throat. She giggled.

"Fitz, that tickles," Olivia complained, deliciously overheated.

He cocked an eyebrow, intent entirely upon ignoring her. "Why don't you like my idea for the main topic of the State of the Union?"

Liv licked her lips, the taste of him still ripe on her tongue, and began her essay.

**OOO**

When she grinned, the edges of her teeth dug into her cheek and her eyes stung like dust particles had caught. Her heart lodged in her throat, she braces herself for impact, clutching to the nonsensical implications of lit candles and a loose fitting blouse-

Olivia Pope had steel walls secured around haywire emotions. Olivia Pope had the face of a gladiator. Olivia Pope _knew and didn't hesitate to tell._

Livy, _his _Livy, had buckled knees and wounded pride.

Fitz didn't dare spare a glance in her direction, but she played the part. She could be unassuming, even if fibrous tendons sang songs of blood and bones and directed labels as they saw fit. Her internal reckoning made direct presumptions and didn't _care _about sloppy things like feelings.

Olivia Pope curled her lip at Livy.

_You are a whore. _

A beat.

"Mellie! What are you doing here?"

**OOO**

Later, free of probing questions and remarks about potential soul mates in the Senate Mellie tells her she knows will be the perfect match, she wondered to herself how she hadn't asphyxiated on her own shame.

The second the door resounded shut and her cabin's quiet was deafening, Liv fell back against the wood and sank to the floor, unshed tears brimming to her eyes once more. In a rush of anxiety, she grappled to bite her fist and muffle the sobs. The rust outtake that rolled on her tongue made her gasp; a wave of nausea assaulted her.

_You are a whore. _

It felt like someone had taken her pristine world of pretend and smashed it with a tire iron, and as it clattered to the floor, shards of broken life, she was dealt a firm set of cards.

She wanted so badly for it to be yesterday.

**OOO**

Cyrus Beene's office was tight and airless.

She thought of his nose against her scalp, the way his grip against her arm had left unseen indentions- she thought of his words.

_I miss you._

Cyrus looked at her oddly. "Are you okay?"

She barely made it to the nearby trashcan before she began heaving.

He handed her something to wipe her mouth with, and she shook her head at his worried front. "Something I ate," was her excuse.

The bitter truth:

A heart slowly shriveling left anyone with a shaky stomach; high and dry. She was going to break him. She knew she was. She just didn't know _how. _And at that point, the hows and whens didn't matter much.

She was going to break her own heart too, but he'd never know that.

No one would ever know that.

**OOO**

Fourteen paces forward. Two left. Turn.

It kept her calm, beseeching of the pounding in her temples- this migraine was the worst yet. Over the course of thirty tree years these instances were a rarity, but not unheard of. Usually a wet rag across her eyelids and a dark room would do her justice.

Now, the only thing that establishment represented was memories of quick tongues and sure hands. Now, all thread sheets and dissonance represented was Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III_. _What she can't believe is that she's become _that_ woman. The one who has the love, but not the ring.

For years that had been a sure thing.

Morals before heart, book before the idea of romance.

And then he proceeded to sneak up on her; that was the first sign he had gotten too far underneath her skin, ripped at the sinewy blithe and implanted something else, some uncharted star that sat and waited for her to take, take, take… She hadn't even realized he was standing a few feet away; she was that familiar with his presence.

It made her swallow hard- how dashing he looked, moonbeams hitting his curls and causing his open face aglow. She inhaled the scent of roses.

Time prepared her for an unruly stand off; for insult to injury, mud-slinging, a few tears. Only one person could ever draw that reaction from her, and he was standing less than ten feet away.

**OOO**

You lose a fight but win a war.

It wasn't until Fitz that she truly understood the meaning behind those words.

It wasn't until Fitz that she began hating them.

**OOO**

And then he flayed her, tore apart every notion of ending and maybe living alone and before she could help it she was saying it to, barely more than a whisper. She loved him _too. _She was in love with him _too._

**OOO**

He drove her up against a marble beam, deft fingers making quick work of her pants, all tongue and teeth and no decency.

Fitz pressed and pulled and bit like she was the last good thing on earth, and the sincerity of it filled her with some foreign emotion she could barely fathom; he didn't even bother to rid any material, simply pushed her up enough to warrant a better angle and drove in-

She gasped, clawing at clad shoulders for some sense of reprieve- she couldn't breathe, she couldn't think-

and _he loved her and she loved him_-

and in that moment she was content with staying that way as long as she could. Her orgasm crashed through her and she threw her head back, almost blacked out when her skull banged against the rock, but bit her lip to quiet the moan when he reached between them to push her over the edge _again. _It was lost to her that agents were only a hundred or so feet away- behind locked doors, but still.

It was lost on her that this was the last time she and Fitz would make love for nearly three years.

He released her gently, and yet they still gasped in unison when they left each other- she always felt empty without him, soulless.

She was glad he hadn't ruffled her hair too much, and kissed him soundly while he buttoned his pants. They gave one last look of the Constitution before they left, blissfully ignorant that a flag pin lay nestled, resolute, just next to the glass case.

Hal picked it up with a grimace, and tucked it into his pocket.

**OOO**

There were faults in their morals, there were faults in anyone's lives- Olivia Pope knew that before anyone. What she hadn't expected was the way the quake finally reaped. She would think of the way Mellie's eyes, judging and perfectly lined- ate at her for every moment until she made the decision that would ultimately slice her into small pieces and scatter them from the White House to her apartment-

She thought that everything had been reduced to closing doors, and she had become the woman she guffawed at because _they never leave their wives, _and all she could do was close the blinds to her office, sink into her desk chair and breathe- as easily as she could- even though it felt like the air was gasoline and she was on fire.

Bending her head to rest inside the dip between her desk and her folded arms- she allowed the tears to run dry. She allowed herself to grieve.

One minute.

Then, she opened up a word document, wiped at a wayward tear furiously, movements abrupt. She set her jaw.

She began to type.

**OOO**

Liv told herself it was for the best, and decided moving on was as sure as blue skies and dying leaves- she would change the color of her life, paint it with pinks and hues of purple- an effervescent sunset- and she would grow accustomed to the aching loss that tore through her when a television would turn to a certain channel.

Her father had been a firm believer that keeping busy kept you calm; it kept you productive. In that first week Liv accomplished a lot.

With her assistance, Huck found a humble apartment on a relatively decent side of town. He had been adept enough to take anything she presented him with, and that was both a blessing and a curse when it came to style preferences. Stephen was fighting with his girlfriend- how he hooked that girl Olivia will never know. On a whim, she had him over.

She felt like she hadn't seen so many people in so long- nearly every spare moment she had Liv had been spending her time with Fitz, so the open schedule and unemployed title was strange; it proved how vacant she had become.

Wine was a constant.

Stephen pursed his lips and fixed her with a look.

She shifted uncomfortably, the lull of their conversation dying down with the vibe "What?" she snapped.

Rubbing a hand over his jaw, he sighed and set down his glass.

"Stephen-

"You are not alright."

The words hung, and Olivia frowned at him surreptitiously. "What do you mean?"

"You're…not Liv."

After a beat, she burst into fiendish laughter, doubling over to hold her stomach. He made a noise of disgust. "_That _is not what I mean. You are sad, Livy. That's what I mean. I honestly don't know what has gotten into you- you loved your job. Why did you quit?"

Sixty to zero, she leaned back, studying the edge of an accent pillow with a somber expression. "I just…needed a change, I guess," Olivia murmured thickly.

"From what?"

Stephen watched her shrug a shoulder. He prodded her gently. "From who?"

Lingering on each goading detail, her eyes eventually traveled to meet his. His heart went out to her- there was a displaced, tired air about her.

"Someone I thought…"

She never quite finished the sentence, but Stephen nodded in understanding, cautiously holding his arms out in a gesture to embrace her. There wasn't a hint of sexuality with the show of comfort. Liv sniffled once, twice, before pulling away and moving her knees up to wrap her elbows around, resting her chin on the tops of them.

Stephen cleared his throat.

"What do you want to do, Liv?"

"Fix it."

**OOO**

The clock read six thirty in the morning.

She rolled to her side again and used the pillow's cotton case to smother her agonized cry. A residual stabbing had started low in her abdomen- it wasn't unusual to have this uncomfortable of cramping, it really wasn't, but the Midol _usually _worked.

Perturbed, Olivia threw back the sheets and shifted onto the balls of her feet. She rubbed her eyes, padding away to assume her usual morning routine. It was going to be a long day.

**OOO**

Liv unintentionally looked down between her legs.

Heart stuttered in her chest- a palm ventured to cover her mouth.

The sheer horror of it isn't something she ever forgets.

It took her a moment to regain function, but when she did- she started counting. She counted once, and then she counted again, and then she counted a third time. Her lips moved silently, making out the syllables, but she never broke the air-

She hadn't even realized she was crying until she tasted salt.

**OOO**

She couldn't stop shaking.

The phone trembled in her grasp when she'd found it within herself to call Stephen- a part of her recognized shock and diagnosed herself accordingly. He was puzzled at her request, but still arrived, bottle of wine in hand, less than twenty minutes later.

Liv refused to answer his questions at the door, and took the gift from him, marching into her kitchen to find a corkscrew, tearing into it with every last ounce of her resolve. Stephen pried it from her grip and forced her to be led to sit down on the couch- she didn't have it within her to say no.

He brought out two full glasses of wine, and handed off one.

"Your hands are ice, Olivia," Stephen commented.

She laughed humorlessly and took a sip.

He looked alarmed. She laughed harder.

"I'm pregnant," she began, hysterical.

The Kodak moment: mouth agape, him reaching out to take her drink away.

"I was pregnant."

He froze, and moved his hands back to place them in his lap. He watched her with a somber fascination. "Livy," he murmured.

"No. No, Stephen," she shook her head, fresh tears pooling in her eyes. "It's gone."

She made a sound that neither could distinguish- nor moan nor croak. It sounded like loss. Resting a hand on her shoulder, she smiled at him, bruised and crippling. He told her later it was like watching a butterfly have its wings plucked.

Logic always won, though, in the end.

"I assume the father was…" he trailed off, unsure how to approach the subject.

And at the dawn of that day, morning light filtering in through the curtains, the only thing that was palpable and clear to Olivia Pope was that she was bone deep scarred with the lies. It felt like every recognizable part she'd ever had was mutilated and tender- it struck her devastatingly hard.

That was _Fitz's _baby.

Olivia Pope fell apart.

"The President of the United States."

**OOO**

It was difficult; missing something she'd never truly had.

When Stephen brought her to the doctor under the name Olivia Finch, the man had diagnosed her as she'd already known- meaningless words of 'it happens' too loud in her ears.

Olivia fixed things.

Motherhood has been an idea she has struggled with since she was five years old. Liv had never considered herself the mothering type- there was always a political fallout to ascertain properly, or an ex CIA operative to emotionally mend. She lived in abuse victims and affairs.

But it wounded her in ways she did not know was possible when the epiphany struck: she could probably fix a scraped knee.

She could probably fix a sack lunch.

She could probably fix tears at a disheartening bedtime story.

When Olivia took the pain medication the doctor had given her she thought one last time about a child with blue eyes and soft curls-

She thought about it for the last time as she was drifting off to sleep, and in her dreams there were picnics and birthdays and Fitz. In her dreams she was happy, and that made waking up all the more treacherous.

**OOO**

She lost that battle, but roughly six years later she would win the war.


End file.
